Page 16 of His Sound
I let out a freakish laugh and scan the room for something to occupy me before I can embarrass myself any further. I spot the still untouched piece of cake and lunge for it, resting the plate on my lap and shoveling pieces into my mouth with my bare hands.
Operation Appear Normal: Complete Failure.
Maybe he’s just waiting for the prime opportunity to run back to safety, but JP stays where he is, humming to himself as he scans over the rest of the collage and occasionally asks me a question about the paintings. I answer in one and two word statements, afraid I’m going to accidentally wax poetic on him again.
As we’re talking, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little rubber ball. He keeps it out of sight under his palm, rolling it against his thigh in an absent-minded way. I don’t think he even realizes he’s taken it out.
“That one’s by Banksy,” I say, answering his latest inquiry.
“Oh!” JP exclaims. “I know Banksy! He’s the one that does the, uh, you know...”
He lifts his hands up in front of him to try and illustrate something he doesn’t have the English word for. When he does, the little ball rolls off the mattress and onto the floor.
“Ah,merde,” he swears, before bending forwards to grab it.
His shirt rides up as he does and I can see the small of his back, along with what appears to be the waistband of a pair of Iron Man boxers. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“You’ve got a lot of papers down here,” he comments. He’s slumped so far forward his head’s practically under my bed now. “You sure you’re not an artist? Oh,attends, is that...me?”
A shard of ice shoots up my spine. All I can do is sit there silently as JP shuffles a few papers around and whistles.
“This is an impressive collection, Molly,” he teases.
I want to dive headfirst under my blankets. I couldn’t bring myself to throw away all my Sherbrooke Station posters after I finally caved and pulled them off my walls. They all got stuffed under my bed as a compromise. Some are official merchandise; others are print-outs of design work I did for Sounds of the Station.
“Damn. This one is fucking awesome.”
JP straightens up, and to my total mortification, he’s clutching a Molly Myers original. It’s an edit I did of Ace. I transposed his image onto a murky black background with the Sherbrooke Station logo underneath him. His face is shadowed, and a pair of graffiti-style wings I drew in Illustrator stretch out from his shoulder blades.
“I’ve never seen this before,” JP babbles. “Usually we get a look at the merch. Half the stuff they show us is crap, but this...this isvraimentcool. They need a graphic designer at our new label.” He taps the poster. “They should use this guy. Where did you get this?”
I blink at him. “A...a show.”
He stares like he expects more detail.
“In Kingston,” I lie. “I have a friend who goes to school there.”
“You mind if I take a picture of this? I’m going to ask the label to look it up.”
I nod weakly as he pulls his phone out and snaps a shot of my work. Someone taps on my bedroom door just then, and I hop up to pull it open. Stéphanie is standing behind it. Over her shoulder, I can see her now more-than-tipsy friends scrambling to grab their purses as they congregate by the apartment’s entrance.
“We’re going to the show now,” Stéphanie says cheerily. “Molly, you’re more than welcome to join.”
JP is already on his feet.
“You need to get ready or anything?” he asks me. “We’re going to see some band. They’re called...uh...something with ‘Code’ I think. Code...Viagra?”
I can’t help letting out a snort.
“Code Ventura,” I correct him.
He laughs along with me. “Yeah, that makes more sense. You know them, then?”
I stare down at my feet. “Just a few songs. They’re new on the Montreal scene.”
“Well, you’ll save us from looking like total posers, then. I don’t know anything about them.”
He smiles at me and walks out of the room, like there’s no doubt I’m following after him—following after him to go see a concert withSherbrooke Station.
Usually when people try to include me, they do it the way Stéphanie does: with a hesitant suggestion and a sympathetic, “Yeah, that’s okay,” as soon as I start to mumble my excuses. On the other hand, some people think being pushy is the way to get a shy person out of their shell, and would have the whole group chanting my name to coax me out of my bedroom.
No one ever justassumesI’m going to agree. No one ever thinks I’m going to be normal about it.
I think that’s what has me pulling a pair of shoes on and grabbing my purse before I can fully process what I’m doing. The part of me that wants nothing more than to spend a night caught up in the rush of music and neon lights clings to the fact that there’s now another person in the room who wants that for me too.
I fist my hand around the strap of my purse as I step into the living room, bracing myself for social impact, but no one even notices my arrival. They’re all thundering and clacking down the stairs of the apartment building already.
JP is the last one out. He holds the door open for me and tosses a wink my way as we follow the group out into a Montreal Friday night.
